


Weapons and Winter Don't Mix

by TempuraSteel



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Domestic Fluff with a Hint of Sexy Times, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Haired Gladio, M/M, Possibilities Ignis, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 20:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13772385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempuraSteel/pseuds/TempuraSteel
Summary: Gladio comes back from training with Noctis and he's brought a formidable cold home with him.  Ignis sees to it that his sick husband gets the right manner of curative.





	Weapons and Winter Don't Mix

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for domestic nonsense, so have some married Older!Gladnis fluff.

The knife flashes with an even, rocking pace, dicing the celery into perfect cuts as Ignis goes about the ritual of preparing dinner. It is a domestic complacency that he has grown fond of, a repetitive task that soothes his nerves from daily negotiations and advisory of the king and his prince consort. Both still so young, so impressionable, but good-hearted and well-meaning despite themselves.

He slides the celery into the pan with a sizzle and adds a splash of oil before clamping the lid atop, just in time to witness a familiar figure sliding the back door open. A brisk whisper of wind sweeps through the kitchen, bringing a faint spray of snow with it as the other man shuts the glass door with a definitive click.

"Damn," he says. "Nasty out there."

Ignis sets the wooden spoon aside as Gladio approaches, snow dusting his leather jacket and his dark hair. Hands settle upon his waist, draw him into a close embrace that is sealed with a gentle press of lips.

"Hey, Iggy." The voice is a familiar, dark rumble near his ear.

"Your training went well?" Ignis asks.

"Yeah." Gladio runs a hand down his arm. "How'd your meetings go?"

"The usual tedium," Ignis says. He lays a hand upon one broad shoulder, eyes upon his husband's exposed collarbone. "But I am pleased that you have managed to come back to me in one piece."

"Worried about how I might drive in the snow, huh?"

The fingers upon the shoulder squeeze just a touch. "Something of that nature, yes."

Gladio kisses the top of his forehead with a lingering press of lips. "You worry too much."

Ignis smoothes the fabric of Gladio's shirt with one finger. "I do try not to."

"Don't," Gladio says. "It's part of your charm."

For a moment, Ignis allows himself to lean against his husband just enough for the other man to hold him closer before returning to the counter where the vegetables await stirring, tapping the wooden spoon against the metal pan.

"Gotta get up early tomorrow," Gladio says as he hangs his jacket upon the hook near the back door. "Need to show Noct some . . . _hhh . . .hheeh!"_

Ignis glances over his shoulder just in time to see Gladio flinch into a heaving sneeze that he catches in the crook of his elbow. And another. Not terribly unusual, given Gladio's rather endearing response to even the slightest chill.

"Well," Ignis says, a hint of smile curving his lips. "I haven't the faintest idea why Noct would need to see any of _that_ from you."

"Ha ha, you fucker," Gladio says.

Ignis chuckles.

It is not until Gladio meanders into the bedroom that Ignis resumes his stirring. At least until his husband gives him a repeat performance. A pause. And then a fourth.

Four in such a short span? A rare occurrence.

Ignis sets the vegetables aside and tends to the chicken that lies in wait beneath the tinfoil, resting so that the juices might distribute evenly. He does not need to know the temperature of the meat to know that it has "rested" long enough. A keen eye and years of experience suffice for that.

"Hey, Iggy."

He glances up from plating the chicken.

"Yes . . . ?" His voice trails off and he clears his throat.

Shirtless and nearly naked Gladio stands beside the counter, as comfortable in his own skin as he is in those rather skimpy black boxer briefs. By the gods.

"You seen my grey PJ's? The soft ones?"

He nods towards the laundry room. "The laundry indicated itself as done just a few minutes before you walked in. They are probably still warm at this point."

"Awesome," Gladio says.

Ignis does not comment on the fact that perhaps it is a bit early for pajamas, but rather sets about the business of fixing their plates. "Pajamas" in Gladio's language meant loose-fitting workout pants and a tank top. More often than not, the man slept sans clothing. Not that Ignis had any complaints.

To his surprise, Gladio returns clad not only in the expected pants, but a soft, long-sleeved T-shirt as well, one that Ignis had insisted on buying due to Gladio's penchant for wearing far too little during the winter months.

"That's a different look for you," he notes.

"What, this?" Gladio glances down at the shirt with a shrug. "Maybe I'm feeling modest."

"Hmph, " Ignis says. "Has Ifrit's fire frozen over again?"

Gladio gives his backside a firm, decisive smack as he passes. "Smartass."

Ignis sets the plates upon the table and the two make pleasant dinner conversation about the day's events, Ignis politely bemoaning the dire boredom of the meeting's curriculum and Gladio spinning a tale of how many times Noctis fell upon his backside in the snow during training.

And then, there is the matter of Gladio's near-constant sniffling. The other man makes little effort to conceal it, as if the action has grown so tiresome, he no longer sees any value in trying to pretend otherwise. Even more concerning is the fact that Ignis has nearly finished his meal while over half of Gladio's remains untouched.

Ignis nods toward the chicken. "Not to your liking, then?"

"Hmm?" Gladio blinks as if awakening from a trance and glances at his plate. "Oh, no way. I'm just still wound up from training, I guess."

"Then it must have been quite rigorous," Ignis says.

"Maybe." Gladio shrugs one shoulder. "It was a pretty long day of . . ."

His voice trails into a tilt of his head as Ignis stares at him over the rim of his glasses. Stubborn man.

"Well, it was," Gladio says a bit crossly and Ignis resists the urge to chuckle.

His husband takes a few more bites before setting the fork down and resting his elbows on the table with a sigh. The amber eyes that raise their gaze to his own are a hazy rendition of Gladio's usual sharp gaze, red-rimmed and watery, the space between his eyes creasing. "I don't feel so hot, Iggy."

In an instant, Ignis's diligent eating comes to a halt and he sets the utensils to the side of his plate. His suspicions about Gladio's well-being were easily confirmed by watching the man eat substantially less than usual, but a confession of the state of his health is a rare, if not unheard of occurrence.

"What is it, then?" Ignis asks, voice gentling as he reaches to brush Gladio's arm with the tips of his fingers.

The other man runs a hand over the top of his hair, pieces of which have slowly begun to come unbound and hang in dark strands near his eyes. "Could be anything. Feels like one hell of a c--- _hhhuh!_ " Gladio turns from him with a trembling heave of shoulders and muffles a wrenching sneeze into the crook of his elbow. He flicks a bleary gaze to Ignis, whose brow furrows in concern.

"Gods, Gladio. Bless you," he says. "Alright, go and lie down. Leave the clean up to me."

Gladio scrubs at his eyes with the back of one hand and sniffles. "You sure?"

Pink tinges the rims of those eyes, a matching shade edging his nostrils, the subtle tan of his skin faded to a pale facade. Ignis resists the urge to swear aloud to whatever gods might be listening.

"Quite sure," he says instead.

His husband heaves himself to his feet, as if the very action of standing takes far more energy than he can muster and saunters towards the bedroom without so much as a backward glance or complaint. Ignis does not miss the groan that follows as Gladio makes himself comfortable within the confines of the bed, the shifting of sheets a short-lived shuffle.

Had Ignis missed the indications of Gladio's impending illness? Surely not.

He scrapes the remains of Gladio's dinner into a container and stores it within the fridge along with the rest of the leftovers. Perhaps he might wish to eat them later and Ignis is anything but wasteful.

From the confines of the bedroom comes a muffled, but forceful spate of coughing and Ignis all but tosses the dishes into the sink before taking a moment to regain his composure and investigate. The fading light of day is still enough for him to make his way across the tiles to where Gladio lays beneath a mound of blankets, sans the necessary tissues that he so obviously needs.

Ignis, of course, is prepared.

He sits upon the edge of the bed and nudges Gladio's shoulder with the back of one hand.

"I thought that perhaps you could use this," he says, holding a clean square of cotton aloft.

"Yeah, I could." Gladio plucks it from between his fingers and gives his nose a tired, but aggressive swipe. "Damn, this hit me fast."

Ignis sits up a bit straighter and pushes his spectacles to a higher perch upon his nose. "Anything I can get you, then?"

"Some more body heat," Gladio mumbles.

Before Gladio can further comment on his needs, Ignis has kicked his slippers from his feet and crawled beneath the blankets beside his husband, pressing his lithe body against Gladio's own. By the gods, but the man is radiating enough heat to prickle a sweat from Ignis's skin.

"Oh dear," Ignis says. "You've got quite a fever."

"Do I?" Gladio shifts against him. "Feels like I'm fucking freezing."

The broad planes of Gladio's shoulders tremble as he contains a short fit of coughing in his sleeve.

The sigh that shoves its way from the depths of Ignis's chest trails into a vocal groan as he brushes an errant lock of Gladio's tousled hair away from one watery amber eye.  
"Ah, my poor love," he murmurs. "How wretched you must feel."

"It's not that bad," Gladio says. He lays a hand upon Ignis's wrist with a thick sniffle. "But I won't complain if you keep petting me like that."

"Of course," Ignis says. He draws slender fingers through the thick waves, pausing near the base of the haphazard ponytail that binds the topmost portion of Gladio's hair away from his face. "Perhaps you might feel a bit more comfortable without this?"

"Hmn, okay." Gladio inclines his head and Ignis untangles the hair tie with gentle fingers, sifting the unbound hair to mesh with the rest.

A blissful handful of minutes pass before Gladio extricates himself from the petting to pull off his shirt and toss it to the ground.

"Now I'm hot," he grumbles.

The advisor's gaze fixates upon the sweat-dampened musculature of his husband's chest and travels.

"Pity, that . . ." Ignis says.

"Hmmn." Gladio nuzzles his ear. "See somethin' you like?"

"Hush," Ignis says.

A low chuckle. "You can't hide it from me, Specs." A hand slides over his side and down his hip. "Too bad I'm sick as shit, ain't it?"

"Oh . . . well, I---" Ignis gasps as fingers creep towards the band of his pants, slipping beneath the fabric. "G-Gladio. You needn't concern yourself with my needs."

A fine tremor filters through his limbs as Gladio's questing hand brushes that which he struggles to obscure through sheer force of will alone.

"I'll concern myself with whatever the fuck I want," Gladio rumbles. "And you're top priority."

Before Ignis can further voice any manner of protest, the other man has made short work of his pants and undergarments, tossing them to the floor in tangle of fabric. Battled-roughened fingers grip him and squeeze with a demanding stroke and Ignis digs his short nails into Gladio's shoulders with a sharp catch of breath.

"Oooh, Iggy," Gladio murmurs. "Damn, you've got it bad, don't ya . . ."

One _could_ say that . . .

"Come here . . ."

It matters not that Gladio could have some manner of contagious sinus business or perhaps even a burgeoning case of influenza. Ignis slides both hands into the thick silk of his hair and captures his mouth in a heated kiss.

"If you are too ill for this--"

Calloused palms slide over his cheeks, cupping his face. "I'd have to be dead to be too ill for this."

The carnal beast. But Ignis drags him down into another fervent kiss just the same.

"How do you want me?" Gladio purrs, tongue laving the shell of Ignis's ear.

Ignis fists a handful of his hair and tugs his head to one side.

"I care not as long as you are inside of me immediately."

Gladio pulls back with a blink before a smirk curves one side of his mouth. "Damn you're bossy, Specs."

" _Now_ , Gladio."

Their coupling is a brief encounter, intense and gratifying, and Ignis is certainly glad that no one is within earshot. Gladio has left him spent and panting, as if it is Ignis himself who is cursed with fever. But his husband's muffled coughing is a reminder that despite his impressive stamina, the man is most unwell.

"Shall I get you some water?" Ignis asks, carding gentle fingers through Gladio's damp, unbound hair.

"Nah, I'm good." Gladio curls against Ignis's smaller frame. "Just keep petting."

Ignis chuckles. "Of course."

Mere moments pass before his husband's breathing grows heavy and even, his arm draping Ignis's side, the fevered warmth of his body mingling with Ignis's own in such a manner that he is glad to have his clothing discarded. Perhaps he can coax Gladio into a lukewarm bath at some point to lower his temperature, but for now, a well-earned rest shall have to do.

 

_~Finis~_


End file.
